Justifiable Culpability
by MycroftsAngelEyes
Summary: AU of the beach scene. Charles' POV.  Charles pre-empts Erik's vengeful plans  Written for a livejournal prompt.


**I am bored. I am tired and have not long returned from my holiday. So I thought I'd find a random prompt on Live journal and fill it before I fell asleep...**

**And this is what I've managed to cobble together. Wooo... xD**

**Prompt is as follows;**

_**Watching from Shaw's eyes, Charles knows Erik is going to kill him... so Charles pre-empts him by shutting off Shaw's bodily functions via the brain and killing him himself. He knows killing Shaw won't give Erik peace, so he does it for him in the hopes of saving Erik from being crushed by the whole thing.**_

**And Below is the fic. I hope you like it and please, please, please, please, PLEASE comment on it.**

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**Justifiable Culpability**

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It is _justifiable_ for him to stop Shaw. Indeed, it is not only justifiable in a logical sense but also in the abstract for the many and varied deeds committed by the man throughout the ages have done such damage, caused such suffering that, for those transgressions alone, Charles could find justification in permitting Erik to drive that coin through Shaw's frozen skull.

Save for...

Erik, the Erik that Charles knows and loves and cares for with every particle of his being and every conscious thought in his mind, could not bear to see the last, truly good, part of Erik become marred and tainted, tarnished and burnt, by such an act of violence. Even if it were to save the lives of _millions_ of innocent, unknowing, predictable human beings.

And so, his justification for his actions now are more selfish and flawed than any of his philosophical ramblings because, before now, he had always intended on stopping Erik from regretting his act of violent vengeance. He had been intending on taking control of Erik's body, holding Shaw's in an iron-grip, and saving his friend from such a dastardly act; even though Charles knows without a shadow of a doubt that Erik would hate him for eternity for bringing his journey of revenge to a premature end.

But he hadn't been expecting the helmet.

And he certainly hadn't been expecting Erik to put the helmet on himself and unceremoniously throw Charles _out_ of his mind.

Therefore, Charles' reasons were as such; he couldn't reach Erik to stop him so he had to pre-empt him _before_ he destroyed himself; he cared too much to allow that to happen even if it would be easier on Charles himself in the long-run; and he had never had something, _someone_, that had ever made him abandon his own philosophies in a single act of impulsive selfishness.

So, _that_ is why Charles has every right, and every wrong, to extend his mind like tendrils and wrap them around the levers and the gears and the dials that make-up Shaw's mind; much like a machine that was overly efficient and had existed long enough for it to be refined and cultivated as best as possible, and it made Charles sick to think just how long Shaw had spent refining his abilities on unsuspecting people.

Each fibre of consciousness moves fluidly throughout Shaw's entire mind until there is nothing there that is untouched by Charles himself. He can hear with Shaw's ears, he can see with Shaw's eyes and he can _feel_ with Shaw's skin. He can see the coin as it begins to move. He can hear the heavy, laboured breathing of his friend, and he is sure he can hear the pounding of Shaw's heart as his own panic and fear bleeds through from one body to the other.

Knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that Erik will not stop that coin Charles does the only thing he can possibly think of.

He turns everything off.

And by everything, he means _everything_.

The lungs in Shaw's chest stop. The heart halts in its rhythm. Blood slows and begins to congeal. Arms and legs become weak and malleable as Shaw's body is completely overwhelmed by the effects of gravity and slumps to the ground.

The eyes remain open but they see nothing for the lights are off now. Nothing is on in Shaw's mind anymore.

All those memories, all that knowledge, all that _evil_ is now gone. In the blink of an eye, with the slightest and most skilled actions of Charles, Sebastian Shaw is dead and Erik stares at the body of the man who has plagued him all his life.

Charles cannot hear what Erik thinks, and a part of him that is aware enough of the world around him worries about that because Erik is unpredictable at the best of times. But the problem is, Charles is too exhausted, too tired and worn out to find it within him to clamber to his feet; though he doesn't recall when he fell to his knees, and push Moira away from him so he can go and face his friend.

Friend.

Surely he is jesting. Erik is not his friend. Charles is not Erik's friend. Not now. Charles is selfish and wishes to never lose Erik because losing Erik would mean that Charles would lose a part of himself and, if there is one thing Charles hates more than anything, it is losing. And being wrong. Both of which he has been on numerous occasions over the last few weeks and it has tired him and discouraged him more than he is willing to admit.

He feels Raven and Moira wrapping arms around his own and hauling him to his feet and he wonders detachedly if they has super-strength or if he is just that small and lightweight. As it is, he suspects the latter. They are saying something to him, whatever it is his mind obviously doesn't deem it too important because it's all white noise to him. He can't hear their thoughts but he realises that he's doing that on purpose and he finds he doesn't wish to extend his ability out _at all_, away from himself right now, to glimpse their thoughts. And so, he contents himself with being half-dragged, half-carried out of the severed jet and out onto the sunny, sandy beach where the outcasts of society are standing.

It's kind of funny really, Charles notes rather absently as he's gently set down on a large lump of metal that looks almost like a huge tortoise shell. They are the freaks and the weirdos but honestly, they're probably the most normal of all in terms of humanity.

Everyone, himself included at times, deign human to be something that looks like the pale skinned, or dark skinned, humanoid figure with a torso, legs, waist, arms, fingers, toes and eyes and ears and so on. But the thing is, if that _is_ human how can one say Hank, Azazel or Raven are not human when they have all the main characteristics of a _'human being'_? They have arms, legs, fingers, toes, eyes and ears; they're in the right places – as far as Charles knows – and they work in the same manner; though perhaps with more precision and accuracy. But they are humanoid in shape and appearance. _How_ can they be considered anything else then?

One does not go up to a Cheetah that has fewer spots and a few more stripes on its tail and say to it _**"you are no cheetah because you're not exactly the same. Shame on you!"**_ So _why_ is it that people do this everyday?

Charles sighs and his eyes are blurred and fuzzy, he doesn't know why and from the blurred blue-outline beside him he can guess that Raven is so concerned that she's not bothering with anything other than Charles. He can't think and he knows she's speaking to him, but there is little his mind will string together long enough for him to form the words with either mouth or mind. And so he sits there, on the tortoise size metal, and lets Raven fuss about him as he tries to sort out the jumbled, discombobulated thought process that is his own.

And perhaps it is fate, or a cruel twist of his life at irony's hand, for the sound of a roaring voice rings out around him and pulls him from his discombobulated thoughts quicker than any slap from a particularly girl has ever done for him.

Charles can hear Erik roaring his name, anger and pain and raw emotion colouring each word so much that there is no need for telepathic powers. Blinking rapidly Charles is only just able to make out the finer details of objects before he is hauled to his feet by the metal on his suit and propelled across the beach only to fall in to the sand as Erik relinquishes his hold upon him.

"He was _mine_!" Charles hears Erik roar at him, over and over and Charles wants to curl up and die because Erik is hurting and it's _hurting Charles_; even though his friend wears that dreaded helmet still he cannot help but _feel_ Erik's anguish as though it were his own. But he'd known this was going to happen.

He'd known Erik would hate him, would loathe him with all his being.

A part of him suspects that Erik may well _kill_ him on this beach today, and Charles actually finds it difficult to care right now because everything just hurts. It hurts _so much_. Like his heart has been torn in two, the ventricles sliced and the valves forced open. The aorta's been diverted and his lungs are being squeezed as his throat seizes.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

Because he doesn't know _what _to do.

He thinks Erik will leave, in fact, he doesn't think it, he _knows_ it. It's quiet now, the buzzing, the white noise, even the blurred vision is all fading into silence and it's nice. It's welcoming. More welcoming than anything has been to Charles in such a long time and he finds it saddens him. He can only be welcomed by darkness because everything seems to reject him because of what he _can_ do. Not does, or will, or should. Can. It's always potential with people. Always the fear-factor.

"Charles?" Someone says his name and it's clear, it's loud and suddenly the world starts up; Charles didn't realise it had stopped but he finds it unnecessary to ponder. "Charles are you alight?" He recognises the voice but not the concern.

It should be anger in that voice. It should be spitting _hate_ at him and condemning his very existence, not _worrying_ over him. Yet Erik is crouched down next to him in the sand, tentative and weary, as he tries to deduce what is wrong with Charles without touching him.

Perhaps, if Charles had the energy, he may well laugh at the madness of it all but he is too tired, because it is all so very wrong and so very backwards that Charles belatedly realises that he is wrong again and has lost something else.

Certainty.

He used to be certain about things.

Used to be certain about people and places, about thoughts and memories, dreams and ideas.

But now.

Now...

Now Erik is gently lifting him up, carrying him in his arms, and the others were moving and Azazel was taking them away from Cuba. Away from the ghosts of the past, away from the demons of the future and keeping them in the known and predictable present.

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_**Consider what you think justice requires, and decide accordingly. But never give your reasons; for your judgment will probably be right, but your reasons will certainly be wrong. **_**– Lord Mansfield**

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_**END**_


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